


i know it's hard to tell (but i think i really like you)

by fiveameyes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, eddie 'i dont like richie' kaspbrak, i forgot to add a summary the first time i posted bc im stupid, no clown he's ugly, slightly out of character towards the end but i did my best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 13:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20967314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveameyes/pseuds/fiveameyes
Summary: And, well. He makes a list. It comes easily, because frankly, Richie is the worst. He’s crass, and crude, and he’s a boy; he’s the exact opposite of what Eddie would consider “his type.” There’s no way he could ever, ever like anyone like Richie.





	i know it's hard to tell (but i think i really like you)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "Dance with Me" by beabadoobee !!

“I don’t like Richie,” Eddie says, out loud. He’s alone in his room, and he’s talking to no one in particular. In all honesty, the only person he needs to convince of that fact is himself; no one else would even dare to ask. 

“I don’t like Richie,” he says again, louder this time. He stands from his desk chair, and walks to the chalkboard hanging on his wall. 

“I don’t like Richie,” he repeats once more. He picks up a piece of chalk and brings it to the board, his hand hovering. He writes. 

**I don’t like Richie. **

It doesn’t feel like enough. He makes a fist and rubs off the words with the side of his hand. He writes again. 

**WHY I don’t like Richie:**

And, well. He makes a list. It comes easily, because frankly, Richie is the worst. He’s crass, and crude, and he’s a _ boy _ ; he’s the exact opposite of what Eddie would consider “his type.” There’s no way he could ever, _ ever _like anyone like Richie.

  * **He’s gross. **

Eddie thinks back to the time, the very same day, when Richie ran up to him, tackling him in a bear hug. The gesture was sweet, and Eddie’s first reaction was in the form of his stomach swooping to his feet. That was, until he caught a whiff of the taller boy’s armpit. 

“Oh my god, Richie! You stink!” He had yelled, pushing him away. 

The sentence on the chalkboard is punctuated with a nod from the small boy who wrote it. Yeah. Richie is gross. He doesn’t even wear deodorant.

  * **His jokes. **

The worst offense in this category was a few weeks ago, on a class trip to the zoo. Eddie was mesmerized by the elephants. He watched the giant, gentle creatures in awe and therefore, fell for the trap that was Richie’s question. 

“Hey Eds, what do you do when you come across an elephant?” 

Snapping out of his daze, Eddie turned to the boy. 

“Huh?” He said. 

The instant regret filled his mind as he saw a smug smile make its way onto Richie’s face. 

“Apologize and wipe it off.” 

There was a beat of silence. Then, the sound of Eddie’s hand smacking the skin of Richie’s arm, and a cry of “oh my god, that’s not even funny! you’re so fucking gross.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes at the memory. It’s still a horrible joke, and a completely valid reason to put on his chalkboard.

  * **He’s not cute.**

Eddie knows it’s harsh, but c’mon. He _ knows _ he’s right. His mind fills with gangly limbs, and broken glasses pieced back together with white tape, and hawaiian shirts with colorful shorts that don’t match and big, stinky feet covered in patterned socks that kick him whenever they can and _ yeah. _Richie is not cute. His hair flies around his face and his eyes always look far too big because of his glasses. He’s not cute, even for a boy. 

  * **He doesn’t take anything seriously.**

There’s too many examples for this one. Every time Eddie is sad and Richie makes some comment about fucking his mom, every time Stan is talking about birds and Richie interrupts him to ask “what kind of bird gives the best head,” every time Bill is stuttering and Richie makes fun of him even though it’s clear that he’s struggling. Richie is always toomuchtoomuchtoomuch and notknowingwhentostop. 

And that’s why Eddie does _ not _like him. 

The next day, the Losers meet up at the arcade, and Eddie’s holding out on the hope that he’ll convince someone to get ice cream with him. He’s the last one to show up, and when Richie spots him heading their way, he immediately barrels toward Eddie to engulf him in another bear hug. Eddie’s chest rushes with blood as the tall boy holds onto him, and he wrinkles his nose in anticipation for the stench of his armpits. But it doesn’t come. 

“Are you…” he trails off. _ Sniff. _“Are you wearing deodorant?” Eddie asks, as Richie’s arms return to his side. Richie chuckles. 

“I figured it was time I get a new signature scent. Whaddya think?” He asks. He even goes as far to lift his arm and offer the smell to Eddie’s unsuspecting nose. To his own surprise, Eddie actually takes another whiff. His face fills with color. 

“Not bad,” he shrugs. Richie slings an arm around his shoulder, and Eddie can’t deny that it’s nice to not have to smell the boy’s B.O. as they walk. 

Hours later, when the Losers have all returned home and Eddie and Richie have finished their ice cream (because of course Eddie was able to convince him), the small boy walks up to the chalkboard in his room and bashfully strikes a line through the first point on his list. 

  * <strike>**He’s gross****.**</strike>

“Hey Eds, wanna hear a joke?” Richie asks, in the same excitable way he always does—as if he’s a child looking for approval from an adult. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “No, I _ wanna _ keep studying, fuckface.” 

The textbook on his lap is seemingly being used, but in reality, Eddie doesn’t know a word of what he’s read in the last 10 minutes. He honestly _ would _ like to hear a joke, even a horrible Richie joke; anything to distract him from covalent bonds. But he would never tell Richie that. 

“C’mon, please? It’s really funny, I promise,” the boy pleads. 

“You said that about the cannibal joke last week,” Eddie deadpans. 

“That joke was _ hilarious _!” 

Eddie takes a deep breath, and immediately regrets even answering Richie’s question in the first place. 

“The fact that you still think so is exactly why I don’t want to hear another one.” 

“Please, Eds?” He begs, putting on his best puppy dog eyes. Eddie groans. 

“God, fine! What is it?” 

Richie’s face lights up, and it almost makes it worth the horrible joke Eddie’s about to hear. 

“Apparently, every 52 seconds, someone in London is stabbed. Poor bastard.” 

Eddie blinks. Then, as if surprising himself, a laugh bubbles out of his throat. He smacks a hand over his mouth, shocked that he actually found one of Richie’s jokes funny. Richie just stares as he laughs, just as surprised that he’s entertained. It’s a really simple joke, and it’s kind of dumb, but. It’s not about dicks or having sex with Sonia Kaspbrak and it’s… a little bit smart, at the same time, too? In a way that Richie never is. And it’s funny. Richie told a genuinely funny joke. As Eddie’s giggles die down, Richie has the most proud look on his face and he doesn’t even look smug about it at all. He just looks happy. And Eddie makes a mental note to laugh at more of his jokes now, even if they suck, if only so he can see that pleased little smile on the boy’s face again. 

He also makes a mental note to strike through the second bullet point on his chalkboard when he gets home. 

  * <strike>**His jokes. **</strike>

The next day, Eddie goes to meet the Losers in the front lot at school, like he does every other morning. The only person there so far is Ben, and they immediately fall into comfortable conversation. Eddie was always a bit awkward around Ben in the beginning, even though he couldn’t place his finger on why. Now, though, it’s like he’s been a part of the group forever. 

They talk for a few minutes, while the others start to show up. Ten minutes pass, and the only person who hasn’t arrived yet is Richie. His conversation with Ben dies down, and he starts picking at a loose thread on his shorts to pass the time. After another moment, he hears a shout from beside him, and feels the weight of a body plopping down on the bench next to him. 

“Good morning, Spaghetti!” Richie says. Eddie lazily moves his gaze to the boy sitting next to him, as if to seem unamused, but his breath catches as soon as he sees him. 

Richie is just beaming at him, in the way he always does, as if there’s nothing different. Nothing changed, nothing new, nothing to make Eddie’s heart literally jump to his throat at the sight of him. 

“You, um…” Eddie breathes. He clears his throat and attempts to make his voice as even as possible. “You got new glasses,” he says, barely above a whisper. No one around them seems to be fazed by this development, but Eddie thinks he could die. 

Richie smiles even wider. “I did! What do you think? My prescription changed so I decided to trade the old frames in for a younger model,” he says. He reaches behind his ears and presses on the legs of the glasses, making them move up and down on his face. 

These new glasses—they’re thinner, more rounded instead of square. They’re still a bit big for Richie’s face, but in a way that suits his features as opposed to swallowing them. The most drastic change, Eddie thinks, is how much older Richie looks in them. There’s no tape holding them together, and they frame his face in a way that makes his brow look stronger, and his nose a bit thinner. He looks _ good. _

“They’re…cool. I like them,” he chokes out. 

And, if all this wasn’t enough kindling for the “torturing Eddie” fire, the first bell rings at this moment, causing Richie to stand from the bench. Eddie catches a good look at what he’s wearing for the first time, and his mouth goes dry. A dark green t-shirt is tucked into a pair of light jeans that sit high on Richie’s waist. The bottoms are cuffed, showing his thin ankles, where a pair of colorful socks peek out of his sneakers. The drastic change from hawaiian shirts and cutoff shorts that fray at the bottom is enough to make Eddie’s knees weak. 

Eddie thinks his intention is to ask a question, but when his mouth opens, all that comes out is a choked “clothes?” 

Richie looks puzzled for a moment, until he looks down and registers what Eddie is saying. 

“Oh! My cousin gave me some of his old clothes he doesn’t wear anymore,” he shrugs. All of the other Losers have left the area, making their way to their first classes, but Eddie stays on the bench for another moment, catching his breath and attempting to collect his thoughts. 

_ Oh my god, _ he thinks. _ I was so, so wrong. _

  * <strike>**He’s not cute.**</strike>

Eddie doesn’t cry often. You’d think he would—he’s always been kind of sensitive, the kind of boy who doesn’t complain when the class is reading _ Romeo and Juliet _because he secretly really enjoys it. He’s sensitive, but he makes a point of not crying as much as would be expected of him. He’s not weak willed, and he’s not a crybaby. There’s a difference. 

But everyone cries sometimes, right? 

It was his mom. He came home late from studying with Bev and Sonia got mad. She must have screamed for 20 minutes straight. The loud, shrill tone of her voice combined with the harsh words she was spitting just cut into Eddie like a hot knife—not to mention the mean things she was saying about Bev. When Sonia was done with her attack, and convinced by the look on Eddie’s face that he wouldn’t do such a thing again, she sent him to his room without letting him get a word in. Which was for the best, because no matter how much he wanted to explode at her, and say all the things he’s been wanting to say for _ years, _he knows that if given the chance, he’d freeze. Mouth closed and chest tight, he’d mutter out “I’m sorry, Mommy,” and do as he’s told. He thinks that’s part of why he’s crying. 

He can’t be very loud, or his mom will hear, so his face is pressed into a pillow as he sobs. He guesses that this is all the tears he’s held in for however long it’s been, and now that the gates are open it’s hard to stop. 

He doesn’t hear the first tap. The second one is a bit louder, enough for the noise to register in his mind but not enough for him to realize someone is trying to get his attention. The third one is a loud rapping, clearly on his window. He snaps his head up to see Richie, leaning his lanky body as far as it will go off of the tree next to his bedroom window. Eddie quickly wipes his face, as if there was any chance in hiding what he was just doing. He scrambles over to the window and opens it. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, his voice thick with tears. 

Richie’s brows are furrowed. “Let me in,” he says softly. 

Eddie doesn’t have it in him to protest. And besides, the boy is _ literally _about to fall out of the tree. He opens the latch more, to make a space large enough for Richie to fit through without getting squished. He eventually stumbles in, landing on his feet with whatever the opposite of grace is. His eyes are immediately filled with concern. 

“What’s wrong, why are you crying?” He asks, putting a hand on Eddie’s arm. 

“It was just my mom, it’s whatever,” Eddie sniffs. “Why are you here?” 

Richie hesitates. “Bev called. She said you left a binder at her house so she called here and your mom answered…and that someone should check to see if you were okay.” 

Eddie cringes. “So my mom yelled at her?” He asks, already knowing the answer. 

Richie doesn’t respond, but the silence is answer enough. Eddie feels tears start to burn behind his eyes again, and he squeezes them shut before they can fall. His fists press into the sockets of his eyes, willing himself to not cry in front of Richie. But he takes a deep breath in, and on the exhale, his body lets out a strangled sob against his own will. 

He immediately feels Richie’s arms wrap around him, and the light pressure of being pushed towards his bed. As he sits down, he lets himself fall into Richie, shaking and crying as hard as he ever has. The tears are falling freely, now, not being pushed in by his fists or his own mind. And it feels a lot better to cry into Richie’s chest than it did to cry into his pillow. He curls into himself, forming a ball as he’s rocked by the boy holding him. One of Richie’s hands is in his hair, petting his head. The other is rubbing up and down his back in a soothing motion. There’s a quiet whisper, too. In a hushed voice, Richie is repeating himself over and over. 

“Shh,” he says. “It’ll be okay. You’re okay.” 

Soon after Eddie registers these words, his tears are slowing down. His hands stop shaking as fiercely, and his breathing evens out just a little bit more. Once his state of mind is regained, he can’t help but feel embarrassed. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling himself out of Richie’s arms. Richie lets him go, but he keeps a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb up and down on the boy’s collarbone absently. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze on Eddie’s face even as the other avoids his eye. 

Eddie sniffles, but doesn’t say anything else. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Richie probes. 

Eddie shrugs. “It’s nothing, I just-“ he cuts himself off as he feels a lump form in his throat once more. “I really hate my mom sometimes.” 

Richie nods sympathetically and pulls Eddie into his chest again. He presses his cheek to the top of Eddie’s curls, and for a moment, they just breathe together. After a few minutes of this, Richie breaks the silence. 

“Look, Eds, about your mom,” he says, pulling back to look at Eddie’s face. 

Eddie exhales sharply through his nose. “I really don’t wanna hear an ‘I fucked your mom’ joke right now, Rich,” he mumbles. 

Richie is stunned quiet for just a second. “I wasn’t going to make one.”

Eddie blinks. “Oh.” 

“I was just gonna say that I’m sorry, and that she shouldn’t treat you that way. It’s shitty.” 

Eddie almost cries again. Not because he’s upset about his mom this time, but because this is _ Richie. _ Richie is sitting in front of him, being honest, and genuine, and not making any jokes at Eddie’s expense and holding him when he’s sad and Eddie could just about die. Because _ god, _he likes Richie so, so much. And now, Richie is just staring at him, holding his arm so gently it’s like he thinks he’ll break it if he’s too firm, and Eddie can’t help the words that tumble out of his mouth. 

“I wanna show you something,” he says, standing up. He walks across the room, causing Richie to turn his body around completely, facing the chalkboard that had been previously (and conveniently) out of his view. 

**WHY I don’t like Richie:**

  * <strike>****He’s gross.****</strike>
  * <strike>**His jokes.**</strike>
  * <strike>**He’s not cute. **</strike>
  * **He doesn’t take anything seriously.**

Richie’s eyes scan the words for a few seconds, and he gets up to join Eddie in front of the board. 

His expression is unreadable as he stares, and every second that goes by without a word makes Eddie’s heart pound faster and faster. 

Richie visibility swallows, and he brings his arms up to cross them in front of his chest. 

“Wow, Eds,” he says, a weak smile on his lips. “This is…mean.” 

It’s clear that he’s trying to seem unbothered, but it’s also clear that he is very, very bothered. Eddie picks up the piece of chalk underneath it and strikes a line through the last sentence. 

  * <strike>**He doesn’t take anything seriously. **</strike>

Richie follows the movement with his eyes. He doesn’t uncross his arms. 

“I know,” Eddie says. “I’m sorry.” 

Richie just shrugs. “It’s whatever,” he murmurs. “I’m kind of confused. But it’s fine.” 

Eddie’s face looks pained, like Richie’s words are physically harmful to him. “I just. I tried so hard to convince myself that I…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely.

“But I was wrong,” he continues, his voice a bit stronger. “That’s why they’re all crossed out. You didn’t even know I made the list but you proved me wrong for every single one.” 

Richie’s eyebrows raise minutely, and he uncrosses his arms in exchange for lifting a hand towards the board, in a question. 

“Wait, when it says you don’t _ like _me, that means-“ 

“Yeah,” Eddie cuts him off. “It means.” 

Eddie thinks he must look terrified. 

Richie turns to make searing eye contact with the boy next to him. 

“But…you said you were wrong. So _ that _means-“ 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, in a bit of a choked laugh. “That means, too.” 

The look on Richie’s face is hard to read, but Eddie is hopeful, if only for the fact that Richie is still standing in front of him. 

“Eds,” he whimpers. And before Eddie can even think to respond, Richie is pressing forward and closing their mouths together in a kiss. His hands come up to hold Eddie’s cheeks in his palms, and Eddie thinks he might explode.

Under their own volition, Eddie’s arms snake themselves around Richie’s neck, threading his fingers in dark curls as their lips move together. The kiss itself only lasts a few seconds, but when they pull away, Eddie is breathless. 

They’re both quiet in the seconds after their lips part, neither knowing quite what to say or how to say it. 

But, of course, Richie always knows how to break a silence. 

“Would you mind erasing that list?” He says. Eddie laughs, and just nods his head, before untangling his hands from Richie’s hair and moving to grab the rag beside the board. Richie follows him, wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder. He watches as Eddie erases the words on the board, maneuvering the rag around certain areas at the top, so all but 3 words are wiped clean. 

** I like Richie.**


End file.
